It's Changed
by Dauros16
Summary: A Blood Elf tries to find redemption along his path, a path that will lead to the revelation of a deadly plot by the Scourge. Allies are made, enemies are found. Above all, who do you trust? Summary is awfully cliched, but the story will be worth it!
1. Chapter 1

(Disclaimers: I do not own World of Warcraft

_**Author's Note: **__For my readers of Golden Sun: Aftermath, I apologize and beg for your forgiveness. School has been taxing my body and mind so much, that I forgot I even had a Fanfiction account. I'm taking a 'temporary' hiatus from GS, but I hope you will enjoy this Warcraft fanfic._

_One thing I want to let people know right off the bat: I am __**not**__ a very savvy Warcraft player. With limited Internet access, I am not very good with the Lore. I know most of the basics, so I hope to be able to produce a workable fanfic. Again, I emphasize, no flames!_

_I wish all of you the best._

_-Dauros16_

Chapter 1-Teledin

When Rag'hol Darjen was younger, he was a fearsome orc warrior. Shield and sword strapped to his back, covered in plate mail from head to toe, Rag'hol had been unstoppable. He had stood up against four to one odds, and had walked away without a scratch. He had taken five arrows in the chest, and had still managed to fell thirty enemies before having to rest. He had been smacked around by demons and ogres alike, and had felt nothing.

Now he felt like a breath of wind could knock him over

Rag'hol groaned huskily as he hoisted himself out of his fur bed. At the age of 69, and with a bad hip, Rag'hol found it more and more difficult to get up each day. Only the thought of getting to the tavern in Razor Hill kept him going.

Rag'hol shouldered his traveling cloak, which was heavily built of kodo hide, and stumped out the door.

Razor Hill was just waking up as Rag'hol shouldered into the tavern, and took his place behind the oaken counter. Many people had tried to talk the old orc out of continuing to mind the bar, but Rag'hol had refused. He felt that if he went into retirement, he would finally be resigning to his age.

The tavern was a fine piece of work, and it was Rag'hol's pride and joy. The oaken walls sparkled, and the tables were in good condition. Rag'hol had scrubbed the tavern spotless as soon as he had bought it, and cleaned it every other day. Again, many people had tried to dissuade the orc from exerting himself, but his stubbornness eventually wore them down.

The prize lay behind the counter, something from Rag'hol's old war days. It was the tooth of a grown dragon, shined and polished like everything else, but sparkling with its own life. Rag'hol had actually found the tooth embedded in a tree, and hadn't even needed to face a dragon to get it. But it was still quite an attraction.

Rag'hol stepped behind the counter, and started washing out the wooden mugs. The types of ale tasted basically the same, but Rag'hol cleaned the mugs more as a matter of principle. He didn't feel right unless he cleaned the mugs every day.

The front door opened. Rag'hol didn't look up, but he knew immediately that the person standing right inside the doorway was not a regular customer. Regulars never stopped in the early morning, because they knew that Rag'hol never admitted anybody this early.

"We're closed." Rag'hol grunted, still not looking up. "Opening time's in an hour."

Whoever was in the doorway didn't hear or didn't care. Rag'hol waited for a moment, then sighed and looked up.

A Blood Elf stood in the doorway, looking around at the tavern, an expression of curiosity on his face. He wore a long traveling cloak, but his hood was thrown down, and Rag'hol could see his head. Thin cheekbones highlighted the man's face, and a small beard adorned his chin. His green eyes flitted about the room, and his black hair was rough and tangled.

Rag'hol made a noise in his throat. The Blood Elf started, and swiveled his head to face the orc.

"This tavern…" The Blood Elf said, "…is really clean."

Rag'hol grunted again. "It isn't opening hour yet."

The Blood Elf walked over to the counter. Rag'hol felt his impatience rising. It would soon become anger, and if this Blood Elf wanted trouble…

"Sorry, but I'm hungry. I need food, and this is the only place where I can get that served to me apparently…"

Rag'hol sighed, realizing that the elf was right. "Sit down then. Our meal today is roasted strider." He squinted at the Blood Elf. "That won't be a problem for you will it?" He wasn't sure if the elf was vegetarian or not. He knew that Night Elves usually tried to abstain from eating meat, but with Blood Elves, who knew?

The elf looked puzzled at the orc's question. "That sounds good. I haven't had much to eat for days. Whatever you have is good."

Rag'hol snorted, and moved towards the kitchen. He didn't like to be social, and wasn't very good at it anyway. As he headed to the back, the man called out.

"Tell the cook that I'll give him a tip if he can roast it to well-done!"

"I'm the cook." Rag'hol called back. "And I don't know what 'well done' means."

He heard the Blood Elf chuckle, and then stepped through the kitchen door, and began to cook.

The elf ate the strider with gusto, digging into the meat with his teeth, and peeling great bites away from the haunch that was set down in front of him. Rag'hol went back to cleaning the counter, and refilled the man's mug of ale whenever it was empty. As the man ate, Rag'hol inspected him.

Rag'hol didn't care much for the Blood Elves and their thirst for magic. This elf however, seemed to contrast from his kin. He was of good build, with muscled arms and strong hands. He looked a great deal more capable for combat than many orcs Rag'hol knew.

Soon, Rag'hol's curiosity was burning in his skull. He didn't like to ask questions, but the elf's presence was a mystery. Not many people came to this tavern unless they lived in Durotar. From what Rag'hol recollected, most of the Blood Elves were traveling to Outlands to gain access to more potent magic. He had seen some in Orgrimmar, but never had one actually walked into his bar.

Finally, when the questions threatened to burn the roof of his mouth off, Rag'hol decided to ask at least one of them.

"Going on a long journey?" He asked, mentally smacking himself as he asked it. The elf had no provisions! Where was he going to go?

"Actually yes." The elf replied, jabbing his finger at the ceiling. "Trouble is, I was a bit lost, and it took some time to navigate." He pointed at the dragon tooth on the wall. "That's quite a find."

Rag'hol chuckled. "A little memento." He shot the elf a look. "Not to pry into your business…but where exactly are you headed?" He refilled the elf's mug. "Are you headed to Orgrimmar?"

The elf laughed, as if Rag'hol had made a funny joke. "For a bit. I plan to travel across to the other continent."

"Headin to Silvermoon?" Rag'hol asked, polishing the dragon tooth.

A silence followed this question. It stretched on for over 20 seconds. Rag'hol turned back to face the bar, to find the elf staring into space, a hardness set in his face. It made his face look older, more lined.

"Yeah." The elf said finally. "I am."

Silence filled the bar, as the elf wordlessly went back to eating. Rag'hol returned to his polishing, perturbed by the sudden change in the elf's demeanor. For about five minutes, the two wordlessly went about their duties. Then…

"Thanks for the meal." The elf stood, putting some coins on the counter. "That was some good meat." His voice had returned to its normal flippant tone, and he gave the orc a small smile.

Rag'hol grunted. "Safe journey." It was the closest thing to a fond farewell he'd ever gotten.

The elf left the bar, his cloak billowing in the dry air that blew through Razor Hill. Rag'hol started to clear up after him, scooping up the coins into a small pouch at his side. The orc heard the sound of hooves beating the ground a moment later, slowly fading as the elf rode out into Durotar. The orc poked his head out the door for a second, watching the elf leave. Then he chuckled.

"Damn fool." He said. "He's heading for the Barrens."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2-Are we there yet

Chapter 2-Are we there yet?

"I told you, we'll get 'der when we get 'der…"

"You said that three hours ago…"

Dauros sighed as he plodded along beside his impatient comrade. This kind of bantering was just the thing the troll would have preferred to avoid when he decided to hire a mercenary for protection. Unfortunately, the undead warrior he had picked had not only been expensive, but he had also had full use of his lungs. And if that weren't enough, he had been a right pain in the–

"Oi!" Brooksworn snapped, bringing the shaman out of his thoughts, "If you don't give me a straight answer, I'm taking off! We've been _walking_, let me reiterate, _walking_, for five hours straight!"

Dauros sincerely hoped that the Forsaken would do just what he threatened to do. It was true, they had been walking for a good while, in scorching heat if that weren't enough. But that didn't mean that he could complain ever minute of it…

"I mean," Brooksworn began, "I'm fine with the task you gave me. I remember the terms very well. _Very_ well." The warrior kicked a rock in front of him.

"How am I breakin' da contract?" Dauros asked, in spite of himself. He kicked himself, knowing what the undead's answer would be…

"Let's see." Brooksworn said, his guttural voice dripping with sarcasm. "You said you needed protection."

"And I do!" Dauros said in protest. "I specialize in the healing arts! On these roads, such a talent would be useless!"

"You said you needed protection until you reached Orgrimmar." Brooksworn said, his voice growing louder, overriding the protest of the shaman.

Dauros nodded. "Ya, I did. And this violates it, how?"

"I'll tell you why!" Brooksworn yelled, gesticulating wildly into the air. "We have yet to set foot in the capital orc city!"

The warrior drew out a wicked looking two handed sword. The weapon was polished until it gleamed with a dull light. A black blade adorned it, with a single edge, like a katana. The hilt was dull grey, the color of steel.

Brooksworn hefted the sword lazily, scowling. "Look around you Dauros. Where are we?"

Dauros knew exactly where they were, or at least he knew what the map told them. He was averse to saying it though, as it proved the warrior's point.

"Um…"

"We're in the Burning Steps!" Brooksworn yelled. "I thought it would just be a simple walk, or better yet, _ride_ to Orgrimmar. But no, you decided to take us on a damn round-the-world trip!!"

The warrior started ticking off the places they had been.

"Let's see…We started in _Mulgore_. We've been all around Kalimdor. We're in _Azeroth_ currently, and let me tell you, I have had my fill of this bull!"

Dauros continued walking. It wasn't as if he didn't find sense in the Forsaken's words. It was just that after hearing this tirade or similar versions of it five times now, he found that it would just be prudent to tune out Brooksworn's jabberings.

A large scorpion crossed their path, clicking furiously. The two 'companions' waited for it to pass, and then walked on.

Dauros realized a few minutes later that Brooksworn's diatribe had ceased, and that the undead was trying a new tactic: silence. The warrior walked with a sulky demeanor, shooting the toll a nasty look every so often.

After about a minute of this, Dauros finally gave in. "What do ya want from me?"

Brooksworn looked at him askance. "Do you really want to know?"

"Not particularly." Dauros' accent butchered the second word. "But if it'll get ya off of my back, then I'm all ears."

Brooksworn huffed out a breath. Then he said: "How about an explanation?"

Dauros had not expected that. "What?"

Brooksworn eyed the troll. "You've already promised me money. I just want to know what the devil you're doing. You seem to be taking a completely random path through the most dangerous places you can find." He sheathed his sword. "Not that I can't handle it."

Dauros chuckled. "Never said you couldn't."

Brooksworn laughed in his rough tone. "No you never did."

The trek continued for a little bit, and Dauros brightened when the color of the stone and dirt covering the ground shifted slightly. The air grew less hot and dry, and small shrubs began to be spotted around.

Brooksworn breathed in, his inhaling sounding like a death rattle. "Well, I don't know how we did it, but we're back in the Badlands."

Dauros smiled. "Didn't think we'd make it?"

Brooksworn chuckled. "You were thinking the same."

They stood there for a moment, savoring the fresh, ash-free air. Then Brooksworn started walking.

"C'mon. We could reach Orgrimmar in a day if we purchase mounts."

Dauros grinned again, and started after the warrior, privately thankful that he did not have to answer the warrior's question.

**Author's Note**: Yes, this seems extremely random! But it's all part of bringing the story together, I promise.

About Dauros: Yes, my name somehow slipped in there. Dauros was my first Horde character. I actually think that I still have him…He's probably so bored (I haven't played his character in months). It is from him that my username originated from.

Well, thank you for reading this chapter. You bring a tear (of happiness) to my eye when you read.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Hello once again my readers

**Author's Note**: Hello once again my readers. This chapter is dedicated to your wonderful support. Sorry for the long wait.

I just want to tell you all that I really appreciate the comments, or even notices that you've put it on your alert list. You don't know how much it helps me through my life. The reason I write is because I want to give you a good story worth your time. So thank you, thank you so much.

Now we turn to a sinister and mysterious scene, hehe, sorry for the long notice.

Another Disclaimer: I own a copy of World of Warcraft, but not the any of Blizzard's games in and of themselves.

Chapter 3 – Restless Stirring

The Eastern Plaguelands was a horribly infested place of decay and disease. Where once, the proud arm of Lordaeron had once reached out across the land, now a place of sickness and sorrow resided. Giant spiders skittered boldly around, sometimes not even bothering to stay off the faded path. Undead creatures of all type lurked around abandoned places, and Stratholme, the once proud city that gave birth to the Silver Hand, had become a place of festering evil.

Claybourne hefted his sword grimly, glancing from side to side. The paladin didn't feel he was really cut out for scouting duty, and yet here he was…on scouting duty. He really had to get a promotion sometime soon, so that he could delegate this bothersome task to someone else.

The soldier of the Argent Dawn crept as silently as he could across the unwholesome looking ground. Occasionally he would glance over his shoulder to make sure something nasty wasn't crawling up behind him. Not exactly the most cautious or stealthy method of scouting. In this manner he moved, semi-silent, across a field of diseased and dead soil. He wasn't worried about attracting any animals, but rather, undead.

The thing that worried Claybourne the most was how bold the Scourge had become over the last six months.

The Argent Dawn usually didn't find it prudent to send paladins to do scouting, but times weren't as allowing these days. This was mainly due to the Scourge, and Scourge related activities. All of the Dawn's good rogues and hunters had been depleted in the recent undead assaults which were massive and deadly. What was worse, new Scourge could be found after these assaults, looking an awful lot like the missing scouts.

Claybourne's expression turned sour as he recounted in his head the last few months of black luck.

It had started out pretty small. There were a few unusual raids on caravans taking weapons and food the Dawn's camp. Nothing too alarming. Or at least, that's what it had seemed like. But then…then things had begun to ramp up.

Without the food and supplies, the Argent Dawn's power had slowly dwindled. Health began to be a problem. There was no way the Dawn was going to grow food in this plagued earth, and so they had had to ration. Then there were no supplies to repair armor and weapons. By the time the Dawn had noticed the problem, it was more than just an inconvenience. Now they waited grimly for an attack on their camp. It was only a matter of time

Still, Claybourne mused, he wasn't going down so easily. He was a competent paladin, which is more than he could say for the raw recruits that were flocking in. Due to their decreasing number of men, the Dawn had requested for additional men. What had they gotten? Misfits, straight from their training days. It was madness. Of course if the Argent Dawn wasn't so pressed for people, then the recruits would have been kicked out. As it was, that still didn't solve their problems, because the recruits needed food as well…

Crack!

Claybourne winced at the loud noise. What was that stick doing there? It must have been right in front of him, as he was making his way down the path. That was the consequence for his being so absentminded…

The paladin quickly shot a 360 degrees look around him. Nothing stirred. There was no obvious change in the atmosphere. Seemingly nobody had heard.

Claybourne sighed. What was he thinking? The undead were camped out several miles from here. How were they going to–

"GRAAAAGH!"

Claybourne spun around, his heart pounding. A single ghoul, spittle dripping from its brown and rotting teeth, charged at him. Its eyes were rabid, its legs loping along at an even pace. Within seconds it would be on him.

But seconds were all that he needed. Dropping to one knee and throwing his shield up in front of his face, Claybourne smashed the ghoul in the face, throwing it off to one side. Standing, he drew a hand and a half sword from the scabbard on his waist, while turning in a circle, facing the creature. He was ready.

Unfortunately, so was his opponent. The ghoul had only been rattled by the shield, and was now back to its primary task: kill. It charged again.

Knowing he only had a split second to act, Claybourne uttered an invocation, pointing his sword at the sky. A faint beam of light pierced the turbid clouds, hitting his sword, and then with a slight hum, reflected onto the ghoul, who shrieked as the skin on its chest smoked. The ghoul dropped, quivering.

Claybourne wrinkled his nose. He had meant for his Exorcism spell to reduce the ghoul to a tiny pile of ashes. He had forgotten that the Naaru's power could sometimes be less effective in the Plaguelands. No matter. He strode towards the twitching body, sword raised to deliver the final death blow.

_Funny_. He mused. _Ghouls, as stupid as they are, usually attack in groups._

A feeling suddenly wormed itself into the pit of his gut. It was the type of feeling you get when you know you have a dozen bows trained on you. The sick feeling, that you know something is about to happen, but can't prevent it.

As if on cue, the paladin stumbled as he was slammed from behind by another ghoul. It hit him from his blind spit. Then, as he stumbled, another struck him, and he went down hard. The a third, and he blacked out for a moment. Then a fourth, this time a claw, that sliced at his armor.

The group of undead had taken him completely by surprise, he realized, by using one of their own to distract him. A common tactic that even a fox would have anticipated.

But if Claybourne was a man who could easily be knocked down by such a cheap shot, then the Argent Dawn (or the Paladin order for that matter) would never have accepted him, or even looked twice in his direction.

Shouting another invocation, the paladin smashed his sword into the ground. A web of yellowish light erupted out of the ground, searing the ground and ghouls, and soothing some of Claybourne's hurt.

Jumping to his feet, the member of the Dawn strode forward. In two clean strokes, he beheaded the two undead in front of him, and then spun in a circle, cleaving the one who had recovered from the holy scorching.

The final ghoul had caught the full brunt of the Consecration spell. It laid there, scorched black.

Claybourne quickly did a 360, waiting for more. None came. All was silent, again. This time, however, Claybourne was not so quick to drop his guard, and kept surveying the land.

Even so, what hit him next took him completely by surprise.

He was about to sheath his sword, when a harsh cry incurred from right behind him. Before he could react, he felt a heavy magic descend on him.

Exhaustion suddenly overwhelmed the paladin. His arms dropped so fast, the shield and sword clattered to the ground. His knees buckled, and he slumped over, hitting the dirt with a muffled thump. Yet he felt the pain as if it were far away. Weakness filled his limbs, and his mind screamed with fatigue.

Claybourne fought against the induced stupor with all of his strength, but to no avail. His eyes were already closing. For some reason however, sleep did not come to him. Something prevented him from slipping into the nether realm of resting.

The paladin could not move, and his thoughts were fuzzy. Despite this, he was aware of two figures standing over him. Claybourne had absolutely no idea where they had come from; they seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Their figures were outlined in haze, and their features were obscured, but he could tell that one was a male, the other female.

Then one of them spoke. To the paladin's vague surprise, he spoke Common. "Is he dead?" He guessed it was the man speaking.

The woman answered in a language that Claybourne didn't understand, or was too far gone to understand. Her voice was harsh, yet sibilant, like a coarse hiss.

"Good." The man replied, and stooped lower, as if to examine his catch. Claybourne felt a hand grab his face roughly, dragging him upright. He smelled

"And we got one of good quality too, better than those whelps that have been cropping up around here." The hand let go, and Claybourne crashed to the ground. Pain seared up his head.

The woman answered the man, and they both laughed. Claybourne's anger began to bubble to the surface. Then he realized that a few seconds ago, he wasn't even capable of feeling angry. _Whatever the spell is, it's wearing off_.

Claybourne flexed the hand under him, testing his reflexes. His reactions were slow, but strength was returning to him gradually. Thank the Titans for the Naaru's protection.

The man was still speaking. "Well, we'd better get back. The others must have harvested enough fodder to start."

Claybourne had no idea what this man was talking about, but it sounded a lot like Scourge activity, and he wanted nothing to do with those abominations. Clarity began to ooze into his head. The spell had almost depleted its hold on him. Just a few more seconds…

"Let's go." Through his clearing vision, Claybourne saw the man take out a small white stone with inscriptions carved into it. Unless he was mistaken, he should act now, or risk being transported to some hellish place.

He roared, and with a swipe, he whipped his sword into the air–

Two hours later, a group of recruits from the Argent Dawn confirmed that Private Claybourne, emissary of the Silver Hand, was deceased, after finding a headless and mattered corpse lying in the muck. Another hour later, the Dawn located the dead paladin's head.

It was three miles away from the body.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Well, I've

**Author's Note**: Well, I'm sure there are those of you who are asking: 'Wait, what?' with these last few chapters. I just want to assure you that these are all connected, and will be made clear in the future.

Enjoy!

Chapter 4 – Tidings and Meetings

Teledin wrenched himself out of sleep, sitting up with a sudden start. The blood elf's normally wholesome looking skin was now the color of a Lich's bones. Cold sweat clustered in great beads along his brow. His breath came in short pants, and his eyes looked around wildly, searching for something that wasn't present. His hands gripped the sheets as if he were throttling an enemy.

It took a moment for Teledin to get his bearings. Eventually, his panting subsided, and his trembling stopped. His hands slowly unclenched from their grip, the whitened knuckles tinting as blood rushed back into it.

Sighing, and clearing his forehead of perspiration with a swipe of his hand, the paladin swung his legs over the side of the bed, resting his hands on either side of him.

Teledin gazed into space dully, wishing that he could clear his head. Sleeping erratically did not suit someone in his profession, but it wasn't as if he had a choice in the matter. Oh well. He'd learned to live with it.

Standing, the elf flexed his arms above his head, stretching his body to wring it out of weariness. After a few seconds of this exercise, he yawned, and grabbed his tunic. Sliding it on, and pausing to grab his locket, Teledin stepped out of the door…

…and straight into the hall of the Mok'nathal inn.

The inn was located in the capital city of Orgrimmar, which was especially busy during the morning, as it was the time where people ate, and then went about their duties. Whether that was work in keeping the orc and troll city in top shape, or more violent labor like mercenary work, the Mok'nathal was the place to go. The food was good, the rooms didn't have insects, or many insects anyway, the rent was cheap. No wonder it had needed the two additions.

Teledin sat down at the counter of the inn's bottom floor and bar, sliding the locket on. Looking up in time to receive the breakfast special of the morning, he quickly dug into the meal.

The food was good. He didn't know what it was, and perhaps that was best, but he voraciously ate, savoring the taste of warm sustenance.

All around him, the inn echoed with talk. Two trolls sat together, nursing their mugs of ale. A tauren conversed animatedly with an orc; it looked like they were debating the finer point of sword fighting, using forks and knives. Three Forsaken sat in a corner, gibbering in Gutterspeak.

It was funny, Teledin mused, that he had never bothered to associate himself with anyone here. He had seen most of these people before, but for some reason, he had shied away from actually communicating with them. Then again, he had only been here for a week.

"Old habits die hard I guess…" He muttered into his mug as he drank.

Behind him, he was aware of the two trolls speaking. He could make out what they were saying, even though their accents were hard to translate over the hubbub. Their conversation caught his interest when he heard the word 'Scourge'.

"…must be behind it." The first troll finished, raising his mug to toast his companion, and then taking a swig. His accent was very thick. He was the bulkier of the two, covered in mail armor, and was missing his pinky finger. His eyes were like flinty rocks. A scar ran across his chin.

"How can you be so sure?" His companion asked. He was dressed in white robes befitting members of his Priest class. His eyes were softer than his companions, and he bore no scars. He drank from a flask on his hip. Even from his seat, Teledin could smell the strong concoction within.

"It's gotta be." The troll, Teledin guessed was a hunter, continued. "Who else would attack da Dawn's scouts?" He took another draft of ale. "Dey're disappearin' in places that Scourge have been known to patrol. Though it is a bold move, even for dem."

Teledin listened, troubled. The war between the Alliance and Horde, a conflict in and of itself, was nothing compared to the vendetta each faction held against the undead Scourge, and the Lich King, Arthas. Some members of the two factions even went so far as to form groups together to combat the Scourge. One of them was the Argent Dawn. Teledin himself was a member of the Argent Dawn, and he knew that as long as you were in the dawn, not many people of either the Alliance or Horde would challenge you.

If people were attacking the Dawn, and _succeeding_, then Teledin knew there would be trouble. It might be worth investigating…

'_Or,_' a voice in his head hissed, '_you're just delaying yourself…again.'_

'_I'll go to Silvermoon in my own time!'_ He shot back, knowing that there would be no answer. There never was. A pang of guilt rushed through him, but he pushed it aside.

Inner voices aside, Teledin knew that if the Dawn was losing its soldiers, it would need all the help he could get. But in order to know how to help them, he needed more information. So it was time for him to do the one thing that he wanted to do the very least. Something that required him to put aside everything he had ever done.

It was time for him to socialize.

Teledin got out of his chair and headed for the table containing the two trolls. They looked up as he drew level with them.

"What do ya want Ears?" The hunter asked, not even glancing at Teledin. His speech was not unfriendly, but it was clear he had no time for intrusions. The other troll regarded Teledin silently.

"Nothing in particular." Teledin said, seating himself at the table. "Could be I just wanted to buy you gentlemen a drink." He winced at the clichéd statement. Buy them a drink? Why didn't he just dump his own drink over his head, and make a complete fool of himself now instead of later?

"Already got one." The hunter answered shortly. At least he didn't laugh. "And Barz just drinks dat foul plant stuff." He indicated the priest, who gave a toothy grin to Teledin, and then said: "I've told you, doctor's orders Az'kug."

Teledin knew a dead end in a conversation when he saw one. He changed tact. Time to get straight to the point. "I overheard you talking about the Argent Dawn over at the bar."

"Yeah, so?" Az'kug downed some more ale. "It's common knowledge to anyone who's even heard of the Eastern Kingdoms." He eyed Teledin. "Seein as how you're from der, I thought you woulda known."

Teledin forced a smile. "I've been busy." Very, very, very, _very_ busy.

Az'kug snorted. "That I have no doubt of. I see you come down here every day. You finish your breakfast, then vanish. No time for a chat." He spat into a pot near the corner.

"Ah, give 'im a break Az'kug." Barz interjected. Turning to Teledin, he said, "Forgive my cousin. He doesn't understand the finer nuances of the subtler arts of mystical energy, so he's naturally hostile to most wielders of such magic."

Az'kug snorted again, but this time said nothing. Barz inspected Teledin.

"You seem hardier 'den 'dose other book-lovers we've seen…" He waggled a finger. "Paladin?"

Teledin gave a genuine grin. "Am I that obvious?"

"Nah, but I'd watch out if I was you." Barz paused to sip from his flask. He smacked his lips. "Terrible stuff, but it gets the job done." He looked at Teledin, holding up the flask. "I have an ailment. This helps me suppress it, though it's a beastly potion."

Teledin coughed slightly as the odor of the drink overwhelmed him. "I'll take your word for it." He gasped. Then Barz's warning came back to him. "Wait, why should I watch out? What's wrong?"

Az'kug cut in. "He wouldn't know much about it. Dat's _my_ story." He had finished his drink. Another was set before him a few seconds later. He grunted his thanks, and then focused back on the paladin. "Now then…"

He drank, and then began to speak. His speech was set so that it was a murmur, but Teledin could hear every word.

"Recently." Az'kug began. "The Argent Dawn's been havin' some bad luck indeed. It all began a few months back…"

Teledin wrinkled his nose. "Incidents?"

"If you want a story tol'," Az'kug said patiently, "ya gotta let the storyteller tell it." He looked amused despite his reproach. "Now then…" He settled back into a more comfortable position. "I'll give you da gist of the recent events. I'm not a member of da Dawn myself, mind you, but my brotha, Az'gurz is. Been gettin' news from him."

Teledin cocked his head to the side. "And?"

And so he listened. With each minute of the news, he grew more worried. The hunter elaborated on different raids, kidnappings, and murders that had been occurring. An emissary of the Dawn had his throat slit in Stormwind, and the killer never found. The guards had found his body floating in the canals, staining the water red. And that was the lightest incident. Members of the group had been disappearing recently, never to be seen again. The only ones who had were three elite members who had been found dead, each in different bizarre ways. The most recent had been beheaded, with his dislodged body part being found three miles away. No evidence was left at the scene, and there was no way to find out who was behind it.

"But do you know what da strangest part of this is?" Az'kug asked, leaning back in his chair, rubbing his chin with his mug-free hand.

Teledin considered the events. There wasn't a single part of them that _wasn't_ strange. He had a shot anyway. "The…fact that no evidence was left behind?"

"No." Az'kug said. "Though that is rather interesting." He looked Teledin straight in the eye. "The strangest part is not _what _happened, but rather _who_ it was happening to."

Comprehension began to dawn on Teledin. "You mean…"

"Paladins." Barz cut in. "Every single person that's been captured or killed in this manner has been a paladin." He fell silent, watching Teledin.

Teledin's blood went cold. His hands clenched convulsively, digging his nails into the palm of his hand. His stomach churned, and a knot of fear settled into his stomach. This pattern…he had seen it before! A hunt for paladins…Mysterious murders and disappearances…No evidence as to their attackers…It sounded just like…

_Stay calm._ He told himself. _It's not what you think. There's no way…_

He let nothing show on his face, something he was used to doing. He looked calmly at Barz, and cocked his head to the side. His voice was level when he spoke, to his relief. "Is that so?"

Barz nodded. "Yep. Every single one."

Az'kug yawned, and fixed his attention on Teledin. "My only question is, why should we care? The majority of paladins in this land are Alliance. If they're getting the chop, then I say god speed." He stretched.

Teledin's eyes hardened. "And for those paladins who aren't Alliance?" He asked through gritted teeth.

"Well as far as I see it." Az'kug drawled. "It doesn't concern me." He stood. "C'mon Barz. We gotta get goin."

Barz stood, and nodded to Teledin. "Later mon." They both walked away.

Teledin suddenly felt like there was no air in the room. It stifled him, pressing down on him like a hand. He needed to get out of there.

Getting up, he walked outside. The crisp air felt like cool water on his face. He inhaled sharply, his eyes closed. Emotions raced through him. Pain, anger, sadness, and strangely, a sense of freedom. Pain from his past, sadness for the lives that had been lost in the attacks, and a sense of freedom for being able

"Teledin?!"

Teledin barely had time to turn around when a hand grabbed his shoulder roughly. Instinctively, Teledin flinched away from the grasp, and began to reach for his sword.

_Wait…_ He thought. _Wait just one second…_

He paused, and looked at his assailant. He was dressed in a traveling cloak, which had been worn down to a thin layer. Tattoos lined his face, and he looked completely unfamiliar. But that voice…and that punch on the arm. He squinted, trying to see past the outlandish armor, and tattoos. And…

Teledin's face broke into a wild grin, and he gripped the man's shoulders with new energy.

"Dauros!?" He cried. "Dauros Bazun is that you?"

To be continued…

**Author's Note:** They meet at last! Now maybe we'll get somewhere. Thanks for reading this, and I'll try to get the next chapter in soon. As always, I remind my readers that they are gods to me (not literally, but you're very important), and that I really appreciate the positive comments. See ya next chapter!


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